The Album of 221B Baker Street
by MrSpockify
Summary: A collection of one-shots prompted by my iPod set on shuffle. Knowing me, they'll all end up being Johnlock, but who knows? Anything from fluff, slash, humor, kid!lock, and more will ensue.
1. Cover My Eyes by La Roux

**Notes: **I got bored, so instead of shooting the wall relentlessly, I've decided to challenge myself with my first song-prompted fic collection. I cross my fingers and hope that my iPod will decide to be nice and not give me songs like 'The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins.' xD

It _does_ occur to me that probably nobody knows what that song is... _  
_

I hope you like my first one. I don't own Sherlock, and I'll put the song title and artist at the beginning of each story.

* * *

_Cover My Eyes by La Roux_

The Woman wouldn't stop texting Sherlock; that Damned Woman, as John liked to refer to her. Of course, he'd never voice this nickname out loud. It was one thing to despise a person in your head, but once the derision was voiced, people would start to wonder why. Why hate her? Why feel that coiled frustration in his stomach every time her name was spoken?

Sometimes he felt that everyone _must_ already know why. Certainly it was too obvious to keep a secret. Everyone made those little comments about him and Sherlock all the time; surely it was because they knew? Because those comments were true?

Another erotic moan filled the quiet room where he and the detective sat, making John wince. He wished Sherlock would change that bloody ringtone. It was vulgar.

"Are you going to answer her?" he asked, tired of hearing that Damned Woman's moaning all of the time.

"No," Sherlock replied coolly. This answer made John calm down a little, but he still couldn't help the image of Sherlock and that her in the same room from popping into his head. There she was, sitting on the couch. Naked. And he stared at her, too. John tried to tell himself that Sherlock only looked at the nude woman to try and gain information about her, but the possibility that he was just attracted to her wouldn't leave his mind.

He wasn't jealous. The only reason John loathed this woman's actions toward the detective was because he knew Sherlock deserved better than that rude woman. He deserved someone who treated him like the good man he was, not just another pretty face.

He wasn't jealous. John knew himself, and he knew he'd never let a pitiful emotion like envy get in his way. He was much more professional than that. In fact, it was for the professional side of him that he hated that Damned Woman. If she interfered with Sherlock and his life, the detective might not be as devoted to his work. Sherlock would get sidetracked and things would never get done; important mysteries would go unsolved. Yes, that was certainly it.

Another moan broke the silence, and John seriously considered taking Sherlock's phone and chucking it out the window.

Ok, perhaps he was a bit jealous.

He looked over, and Sherlock sighed quietly and took his phone out of his pocket. The bright screen illuminated his face, casting shadows around his sharp cheekbones. His eyes darted over the screen, and, much to John's surprise and irritation, one side of his mouth quirked up in a small smirk.

The fact that Irene Adler, that _Damned_ Woman, made Sherlock smile made John almost sick to his stomach. He turned away, closing his eyes for a moment and trying not to feel too furious. When her suggestive tone sounded again, he clenched his teeth together. A familiar pang shot through him, and he didn't even bother trying to elude from what it was.

John Watson was very jealous.


	2. I Hold Your Hand in Mine by Tom Lehrer

__**Notes: **Hello again! This one is a bit more humorous. It occurs to me, though, that no one knows what my songs are. My music taste is a tad... different...

All well... If you want to listen to them, I think it might help the mood of each story, but you can read them without it.

I hope you enjoy this one, because I had a lot of fun writing it.

* * *

_I Hold Your Hand in Mine by Tom Lehrer_

Sherlock held the hand in his own, running his thumb over the palm gently. He traced a finger over the indentions on the inside, marveling at the smooth, almost silky, skin. He turned it over and over in his own hands, trying to memorize everything, right down to the patterns on the fingertips, the slopes of the knuckles, and the cuticles resting at the base of the nails.

The hand was absolutely gorgeous, perfect in every way imaginable. Hard callouses covered the skin, but it was still soft to the touch. Short, light hairs dotted the back of the hand, leading up to the fingers, which were admittedly stout, but appeared like they would be lithe and efficient. This was certainly the hand of a hard-working man.

"John?" Sherlock splayed out the fingers, looking closely at the tips of the fingernails, searching for hints of biting of scratching; there were none. So he wasn't a nervous man, it seemed. He kept very good care of his hands; they were clean, but not so much that they had been polished. Not metrosexual, then, just careful.

"Yes, Sherlo— Good God! What are you doing with a hand?" John stepped into the sitting room from his own room, gasping as he stared at his friend. The detective was sat in the middle of the floor, holding a severed hand up to his face closely. Sherlock didn't even turn his gaze from the fingers when he entered the room.

"Experiment," he quipped, holding the pinky between his thumb and forefinger. "Would you grab me the matching hand from the freezer?"

"No, Sherlock. Just…" John sighed and turned away, not sure what to think of his flat mate. "Just no," he muttered and left the room, shaking his head slowly.


	3. Trouble is a Friend by Lenka

_Trouble is a Friend by Lenka_

John still remembered the warning he received from Sally Donovan on his very first case. "Stay away," she had said. She had given him a thorough warning about Sherlock, and John chose to deliberately ignore it. He was torn on whether or not that was a good decision on his part.

Sherlock was absolutely brilliant in every aspect of the word. He was quick as a whip, easily deducing where a man had been in the past twenty-four hours by the way he blinked. He was an artist, and damn good, too, able to pick up his violin and play a stunning concerto without even trying. He could wear a sheet and nothing more, yet still walk with the sophistication of a monarch. He was so completely simple, yet so intricately enigmatic it was almost maddening.

He was the most amazing man John Watson had ever met, and that's exactly why he wished he had listened to Sally.

Sometimes it scared John how much he admired the detective. The fact that this man just stepped into his life and suddenly became it was truly frightening. What started out as merely sharing a flat had quickly become much more. Sherlock was literally John's whole life. He lived, breathed, and worked for the man, and no matter what he did to stop it, John only dug the hole deeper.

There was no escaping him; it was far too late for that. Sherlock was the doctor's best friend and his worst nightmare bundled up into one, and it was so much harder to leave a friend behind than a bad dream.


	4. Song About an Anglerfish by Hank Green

_A Song About an Anglerfish by Hank Green_

John was used to being called a lot of things, many of those things pertaining to his relationship with Sherlock. He had been called the detective's partner, associate, colleague, friend, boyfriend, etc. At this point, he just accepted whatever they said and went along with it. If somebody wanted to think he was Sherlock's date, that was fine. More power to them. If they wanted to think he was Sherlock's assistant, then whatever. Have at it. Hell, if they wanted to think he was his _slave_, John didn't think he care very much.

This, however… This name was a new one. And it even came from the great detective himself.

"John, you are my anglerfish," Sherlock had pointed out one afternoon, perched on his armchair like an owl. John looked up from his laptop, not sure what to make of the random comment. Was he supposed to know what that meant? He assumed, more like _hoped_, it was a compliment, but knew that with the detective, you should never assume.

Unable to come up with anything else to say, he simply asked, "What?" At this, the tall man turned his bright eyes to stare at his flat mate, a smile teasing at the edges of his lips.

"The female anglerfish, the fish you are probably picturing right now, swims along, living her life as any other fish. When it's time to procreate, a male anglerfish, much smaller than the female, will latch onto her side and produce sperm. He will continue to be latched onto her side until the day she dies. He never leaves her side," he broke off momentarily as he smiled widely. "John, you are my anglerfish."

The doctor just stared, unable to hold back the laughter that bubbled up. Sherlock was so unimaginably strange it was hilarious. And, although he hated to admit it, the detective had a point. They were just like a little anglerfish couple. Well, he thought, shrugging slightly. At least I'm the male…


	5. Alarm by JB Dazen

_Alarm by J.B. Dazen_

_Beep beep beep beep…_

John groaned and rolled over in his bed, burying his face into his pillow. Even when he pulled the covers over his head, the clamorous beeping invaded his much-needed sleep. What time was it? He lifted his head enough to see his own clock and forced one eye open.

Six o'clock. On a Saturday. He was going to kill Sherlock.

_Beep beep beep beep…_

"Sherl'ck," he slurred far too quietly for the detective to hear. Why did he have his alarm set so loudly, anyway? And why the hell wasn't he turning it off? "Sherlock," he repeated, much louder this time.

_Beep beep beep beep…_

Realizing he was going to have to get out of bed, John suddenly became much more furious with his flat mate. He braced his arms, then pushed himself up into a sitting position, simply staring into the darkness with his eyes half-opened. He almost fell asleep again, his head lolling forward lazily, but blinked hard, forcing himself to stay conscious long enough to murder Sherlock.

_Beep beep beep beep…_

John stumbled out of bed, his legs buckling and nearly sending him toppling forward into his dresser. When he caught his balance, he put his arms out, feeling his way blindly around the dark room. His hand touched the cold doorknob, and he yanked it open a little too quickly, hitting his toe with the edge of the door.

"Oh, f—"

_Beep beep beep beep…_

He limped down the stairs, still groggy and disoriented. He kept bumping into things as he went and walked with his body leaning on the wall lethargically. When he finally got to Sherlock's room, he was thoroughly annoyed and still half asleep, his jaw slack and his vision slightly blurred.

"Sherlock," he called, thwacking one knuckle lightly on the door. As he waited for a response, he leaned forward on the door, trying not to fall asleep.

_Beep beep beep beep…_

This was getting ridiculous. John rolled his eyes and stood up straight, tired and angry and feeling a bloodlust starting to rise substantially. "Sherlock, turn off the damn alarm." He listened for any clamor that might suggest the detective was up and active, but the only sound was the same, repetitive beeping. "Sherlock," he rapped on the door again, this time with a closed fist.

_Beep beep beep beep…_

"_Sherlock_!" Tired of playing nice, he twisted the doorknob and barged in, throwing out any lessons he had ever had on etiquette. John flicked the light switch on, illuminating the room immediately. Lying in the bed with the duvet still covering his body, Sherlock was peering over at the army doctor, a calm look on his face. His hair was matted and disheveled, but his bright eyes and welcoming smile indicated that he had been awake for a while.

"Good morning, John," he chirped happily. Too happily, if it was up to John. "Could you turn off the alarm for me? I need to get up so I can meet Mycroft for breakfast."

_Beep beep beep beep…_

Without a word, John stomped up to Sherlock's bedside, reaching out and gripping the alarm clock with a tense fist. He jerked his arm, ripping the plug out of the wall and stopping the shrill alarm mid-beep. He plodded tiredly over to a wastebasket and dropped the device in it with a loud clunk.

Thinking he might actually punch the detective if he stayed, John trudged out of the room, his jaw clenched tightly. He thought he vaguely heard a "Thank you" as he left, but he chose to ignore it, going back to bed.


	6. Le Même Que Moi by Gary Fico

**Notes: **Ok, so this song is actually a French song which translates to _The Same as Me_. For those who don't speak French fluently (*cough* **_me_ ***cough*) I'll summarize briefly what it's about. Basically a boy and his younger brother are singing about the younger brother acting like the older one and wanting to be just like him. So... Yeah. It's not that complex. Haha

This story has some Mycroft and Sherlock brotherly love with kid!lock. Yay! :)

* * *

_Le Même Que Moi (feat. Léo Rispal) by Gary Fico_

Mycroft was sitting cross-legged on the couch in the study, his face buried in a book about the subtle changes in government from the 1900s to today, when his four year-old brother entered the room. The older child had learned to just ignore Sherlock when he entered a room, knowing the kid would only start off on his 'why' spiel. Mycroft wasn't sure why, but lately that was all Sherlock seemed to be able to say. He'd tell his brother to do simple tasks then receive the one-word question as a response each time. It was infuriating.

He kept his eyes on the page before him, trying to ignore the niggling sensation at the back of his mind that said he was being stared at. If he just ignored the toddler, he'd get bored and walk away, right? Well, it wasn't working so far. Mycroft put a finger to the page, guiding it along underneath each word he read so he could focus; the small, unmoving figure in the doorway was considerably distracting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock start to move, his feet slapping against the ground with the urgency that every little kid walks with. The child veered to the left, disappearing from Mycroft's peripheral vision. Disregarding him again, he went back to the paragraph his finger rested underneath, his eyes darting across the page as he took in the information.

After he finished a few more pages, Mycroft blinked, realizing that his brother hadn't asked him a single question since entering the room. In fact, the toddler hadn't said a single _word_. He looked up from his current page, spotting the child over in a corner chair. Sherlock had an enormous book resting in his lap and opened to a random page in the middle. He looked ridiculous; the book was nearly as big as he was. One finger was on the page, moving across slowly, tracing the sentences. His eyes were intensely focused and his eyebrows were knit so tightly he looked like he was in pain. It took Mycroft all of ten seconds to realize what he was doing.

Sherlock was copying his brother.

He was sitting cross-legged with a book in his lap, leaning over and reading with his finger on the page, just like he had been doing. Mycroft almost laughed at the silliness, then felt a sort of pride swell in his chest. Sherlock had never tried to be like him before. It was… flattering, in a way.

"Sherlock," he called, making his younger brother's head snap up so quickly his brown ringlets bounced in the aftershock. "What are you reading?" The toddler closed the book with a loud thud and held it up as best as he could, his tiny arms shaking under the weight. _Essays on the Political Influence during the French Revolution_, read the title. So he's reading one from my collection, thought Mycroft with a smile. He had read it before, so he knew with certainty that his brother was not able to read it. Sherlock could hardly read _Guess How Much I Love You_ without stumbling over his words a few times.

"How's it going?" he asked, forgetting his own read. The young boy's shoulders lifted up in a shrug and he opened the book again to a random page, staring at it with determined eyes. He bit his lip and pressed a finger to the page harder than necessary. "Sherlock," he tried again, setting his book aside, "why don't you come over here and we can read that together?"

Sherlock was immediately out of his chair and hobbling over to where Mycroft sat, the huge book cradled in his arms and threatening to fall to the ground. When he was close enough, Mycroft took the book from him, allowing the toddler to crawl up onto the couch beside him. He got extremely close, placing most of his weight on his older brother's side and resting his curly mop on Mycroft's shoulder. The older boy opened the book on his lap, and Sherlock leaned closer to stare at the small text.

"Can you read this sentence?" Mycroft started, pointing to a simple section on the page. None of the words were too complex, so he assumed his brother would have an easy enough time.

"'He w-was l-lat-ter," Sherlock read slowly, stretching out each syllable carefully, "later put to d… dee-th by the King." When he finished the sentence, the toddler looked up expectantly, his eyes wide and shining with satisfaction.

"Good job," Mycroft praised, smiling encouragingly. "Except it's _death_, not _dee-th_. The 'e-a' makes an 'eh' sound, not an 'ee' sound." He patted his brother on the back despite his folly, surprisingly enjoying the little reading lesson they were having. Maybe his little brother wasn't all that bad after all…

"Why?"

Oh no.


	7. Love Don't Roam by Neil Hannon

**Notes: **I just wanted to thank everyone really quickly for all the favorites, alerts, and reviews. You're all amazing, and thank you. :)

Also, this story is post-Reichenbach Fall, so if you don't want spoilers don't read.

* * *

_Love Don't Roam by Neil Hannon_

Sherlock was getting very tired of travelling. Currently he resided in New Zealand, where he was tracking down the last person who had a gun trained at the people he cared about. He didn't mind this part of his wandering, really. In fact, he kind of enjoyed the thrill of hunting down snipers; it was exciting and dangerous and made him feel _alive_. Despite the adventure, though, he wanted nothing more than to go back home again.

He wanted to see 221B Baker Street again, and say a chaste hello to Mrs. Hudson as he went inside. He missed her constant, "Not your housekeeper" tag, and honestly, he felt almost lost without her input every once in a while. He wanted to pace around the flat while he waited for a new case to pop open. He missed Lestrade, albeit he hated to admit that one. He wanted the DI to drop in and tell him about a new incident he was lost on. He wanted to be back again. He wanted to see John.

_John_. The ex-army doctor was making this travelling very difficult. Sherlock would get texts from him constantly, asking where he was, what he was doing, and when he was coming back home. Sherlock could never answer them; at least, not yet. The anguish was made harder when he received texts that made his heart break a little.

**Sherlock, I'm bored. I'm afraid  
I'll find a gun and take care of it.  
-JW**

** How do you go without eating for  
so long? It hurts. A lot.  
-JW**

** My limp is back.  
-JW**

Every time he got text Sherlock would squirm, hoping it wasn't as bad as the last one. It wasn't as bad, usually; it was worse. He feared John might actually do what he threatened so often. On many more than one occasion, Sherlock was tempted to text him back, just to tell him no. Just to order him to be patient.

He was tired. He was _so_ tired. He was fairly sure his body could not physically handle any more of this, and he was positive his mind could not handle any more. He was just… Done. That was the only way to describe how he was feeling. He was finished with all of this tracking and travelling and protecting. He was wanted everyone to be safe so he could go back again.

"What do you want?" Sherlock looked over at the man across from him in the otherwise empty bathroom. He didn't bother making any deductions about the man's personal life; he knew who he was, what he had done, and what Sherlock now had to do. He held up a gun, pointing it at the sniper. The _last_ sniper.

This work was tedious, at this point. He had already executed the others, so this one was no different. He simply made the murder look like a suicide; it was easy enough. With the gun held towards this man, Sherlock mostly felt relief swell in his chest. It was over. It was truly, finally, over.

"What do you want," the man repeated, his voice raising an octave. He looked scared and guilty, just like the others. Sherlock cocked the gun and grinned. He actually _grinned_, unable to control himself.

"I want to go home." _Bang. _


	8. Dancing Queen by Abba

__**Notes: **Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I'm trying to balance two other multi-chapter fics, a novel I started working on, and real life. Oh, yeah... Real life. That thing I should pay more attention to but probably won't... :/

Anyway, here is the next installment. Now, when this song came up, many ideas popped into my head. But I wrote it this way for reasons... Don't judge me...

* * *

_Dancing Queen by Abba_

John was outside the door to his flat, a jug of milk balanced precariously on his knee and a box of takeout resting on one palm. He was home early from taking a walk and visiting the grocery store, having skipped the walk, deeming the weather to be unacceptable. He could take his walk at some other time.

Yes, he would take it later…

Much, much later.

Entering the flat, he made sure to get a better grip on the milk and food, which was probably the smartest thing he had ever done in his entire life. Had he not had them secured, he most certainly would have dropped them when he walked into the living room.

Sherlock, the world's only consulting detective, with a brilliant mind and enthralling, mysterious exterior, stood in the middle of the room, completely unaware of his flat mate's entrance. No, not standing. He was doing everything _but_ standing. Sherlock, draped in his blue dressing gown and pajamas, was _dancing_.

John could do nothing but watch in fascination and horror and just plain _shock_ as the detective swayed back and forth to the rhythm of a loud pop song, his arms and shoulders shimmying to the beat. His hips rotated and his toes tapped on the floor whenever his feet weren't carrying him around the room. Every time his head bopped, the dark curls bounced along. He faced away from John as he danced, but from his occasional twirl he had noted that Sherlock's eyes were closed as he was lost in the music.

He wasn't a particularly bad dancer; a little gangly and uncoordinated, yes, but not bad. John wasn't quite sure how to make his presence known to the dancing detective. On one hand, he didn't want to humiliate the detective. But, on another, he wanted so badly to see his face when Sherlock opened his eyes, only to realize he had an audience. He didn't have much more time to think about, though, because the dancing quickly subsided. Sherlock slowly turned around to look at John, his face completely impassive. Without a word, the detective walked over and turned off the music, grabbing the player and cradling it in his arms. He squinted at John for a moment, then rolled his shoulders back and tilted his head a little higher.

"You will tell no one." And with that, Sherlock exited the room, his robe billowing out behind him. Oh yes, John thought, trying not to laugh. He was very mysterious indeed.


	9. Fix You by Coldplay

**Notes: **Ok, so, note to self and tip to everyone: DON'T SEARCH 'Reichenfeels' ON TUMBLR! Your heart will shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. :'(

This one is about Reichenbach Fall, so _*River Song pops up*_ "Spoilers!"

Ugh. Seriously, I'm having some major Reichenfeels. I don't know what my emotions are doing.

* * *

_Fix You by Coldplay_

It was well past midnight, but he still couldn't sleep. One arm rested under his head while the other was slung loosely off the side of the bed, dangling helplessly. The only sound in the room, piercing the dark like a thorn, was his uneven breathing. It hitched in his throat and he had to force it out; he had to force himself to breathe. Even in the dark, he kept his eyes open. At least when it was night, he could see the vague shapes of his dresser and door outlined by the moonlight. Whenever he shut his eyes to sleep, all he could see was—

Oh, God, it hurt. Every time the images flashed behind his eyelids his heart throbbed heavily. His chest tightened, making him draw his legs up and turn on his side. The room grew eerily silent as he held his breath, trying not to let a sob escape his lips. His throat dried and knotted up but he kept silent. He couldn't, however, stop the quiet tears from falling down his cheeks.

_Falling_…

Dammit. John turned onto his back again, scrunching his eyes closed tightly. The sob in his throat burned and rose like bile until he couldn't hold it in, and he opened his mouth, letting out a gross, painful gasp.

_He held out his hand, and Sherlock reached out from where he was. But they were too far away. Their fingertips just scrabbled in the air, never touching. Never even close._

John sat up in bed, trying to control himself. He just wanted to sleep; was that too much to ask? He couldn't handle everything like it was. There were too many memories, too much grief, too much hurt. Everything was just too much. He just wanted to let it all go, but he knew it wasn't going to happen. How could he let it go? How could he let _him_ go?

_"This phone call— it's, uh… it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note." He should have caught on sooner. He should have stopped him. He told Sherlock to stop, but he didn't listen. He never listened. "Goodbye, John." He tossed the phone aside, leaving John no choice. He screamed. _

His throat still hurt from the scream that was still too soft. He hadn't tried hard enough to stop him. He hadn't yelled loud enough. He hadn't been heard. Another strangled gasp rang out and he snapped his mouth shut, clutching the duvet in a tight fist. His whole body trembled uncontrollably, and he tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't. He tried to look at the gentle silhouette of his dresser, or at least peer into the shadows that were all around him. He just couldn't.

_His arms spread like wings, but John knew he wasn't going to take off. Sherlock was human, the most human human he knew, so he was going to fall. He leaned over, first precariously close to losing his balance, then moving forward. No, down. He was falling. John's whole body froze as he watched in horror, unable to do a thing. He was too far away. He was too quiet. He was too late. _


	10. Star Trekkin' by Dr Demento

**Notes:** Alright... I guess this had to happen eventually. I apologize in advance for this... I... I don't even know...

Also, sorry for the periods between the verses. I don't know the HTML code to add a space between them. (If anyone knows I'd be thrilled to learn it.)

I'm sorry.

* * *

_Star Trekkin' by Dr. Demento_

_Deducin'_

_._

Deducin', all over London roads,

221b Baker Street, under Sherlock Holmes.

Deducin', all over London roads,

Tracking down a murderer, let's hope we don't explode.

.

DI Lestrade, report.

.

There's cases piling up right now, up right now, up right now,

There's cases piling up right now. Not my division!

.

Analyses, Mycroft Holmes.

.

It was cake, but I already ate it, already ate it, already ate it.

It was cake, but I already ate it. I worry about you, Sherlock.

.

There's cases piling up right now, up right now, up right now,

There's cases piling up right now. Not my division!

.

Deducin', all over London roads,

221b Baker Street, under Sherlock Holmes.

Deducin', all over London roads,

Tracking down a murderer, let's hope we don't explode.

.

Medical Update, Dr. Watson.

.

Fantastic, Holmes. Brilliant, Holmes. Amazing, Holmes! Sorry.

Fantastic, Holmes. Brilliant, Holmes. Sorry, I'll stop.

.

It was cake, but I already ate it, already ate it, already ate it.

It was cake, but I already ate it. I worry about you, Sherlock.

.

There's cases piling up right now, up right now, up right now,

There's cases piling up right now. Not my division!

.

Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes:

.

Ah, it's elementary, my dear Watson, my dear Watson, my dear Watson.

It's elementary, my dear Watson. It's for science, John.

.

Fantastic, Holmes. Brilliant, Holmes. Amazing, Holmes! Sorry.

Fantastic, Holmes. Brilliant, Holmes. Sorry, I'll stop.

.

It was cake, but I already ate it, already ate it, already ate it.

It was cake, but I already ate it. I worry about you, Sherlock.

.

There's cases piling up right now, up right now, up right now,

There's cases piling up right now. Not my division!

.

Deducin', all over London roads,

221b Baker Street, under Sherlock Holmes.

Deducin', all over London roads,

Tracking down a murderer, let's hope we don't explode.

.

Swimming Pool, Moriarty:

.

I will burn the heart out of you, heart out of you, heart out of you.

I will burn the heart out of you. That's what people _DO_!

.

Ah, it's elementary, my dear Watson, my dear Watson, my dear Watson.

It's elementary, my dear Watson. It's for science, John.

.

Fantastic, Holmes. Brilliant, Holmes. Amazing, Holmes! Sorry.

Fantastic, Holmes. Brilliant, Holmes. Sorry, I'll stop.

.

It was cake, but I already ate it, already ate it, already ate it.

It was cake, but I already ate it. I worry about you, Sherlock.

.

There's cases piling up right now, up right now, up right now,

There's cases piling up right now. Not my division!

.

Deducin', all over London roads,

221b Baker Street, under Sherlock Holmes.

Deducin', all over London roads,

Tracking down a murderer, let's hope we don't explode.

.

Deducin', all over London roads,

221b Baker Street, under Sherlock Holmes.

Deducin', all over London roads,

Tracking down a murderer, let's hope we don't explode.

* * *

**Notes: **Oh, dear... *hides in shame*


	11. Don't Let Me Get Me by Pink

**Notes: **Some more kid!lock in this chapter. Well... adolescent!Sherlock and University-aged!Mycroft. I figured kid!lock was a little catchier. _  
_

Thank you for all of the lovely reviews, favorites, and alerts! They make me very happy ^_^ I send you all virtual Cumberhugs. (Have you ever seen Benedict Cumberbatch hug someone? I really want one of those hugs. O_O)

* * *

_Don't Let Me Get Me by Pink_

Mycroft rapped his knuckles against the familiar front door, thinking that it was nice to be back home from Uni. He was only visiting, like he promised his mother he would, but it still felt comforting to be back. He recognized the rustic bench on the front porch, covered in ivy and surrounded by healthy, potted plants. Mum always did love planting and gardening; he'd have to see how her garden in the backyard was coming along. He also identified the doorbell that, when pressed, did absolutely nothing; it had been broken for years, and she still hadn't fixed it.

As if on cue, his mother opened the door with a warm smile, her eyes already beginning to mist. She pulled him into a hug, holding him there for what he decided was a very long, very understandable time. He _had_ been gone for months, and she _was_ his mother. He was under the impression that they did things like that.

They exchanged sentiments over schoolwork and news, all the while Mycroft wandered around the living room, trying to spot anything that changed. Nothing much was different other than the rug placed not quite in the center of the room. It was tilted to one end of the room and turned skew, certainly not something his Mum would want to do voluntarily. As they spoke about a recent change in politics, Mycroft used his toe to lift a corner of the rug, revealing to him a dark, purple-tinted stain underneath. He raised an eyebrow and looked at his mother, who was staring at the stain with a knowing smile. They looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Sherlock," they muttered in unison, sharing a small chuckle. Mycroft let the rug back down and wandered for a few moments more before pausing and putting his hands in his pockets.

"Speaking of Sherlock," he started, looking around as if expecting the boy to pop out at any moment, "where is he?" His mother nodded in the direction of the young Holmes' bedroom, giving a sad smile. Mycroft knew Sherlock was a little sour after he had left for Uni, but to not even come out and greet him? He headed off in the direction she had gestured to, walking down the hall and turning the corner. When he came to the door, he leaned up against it and listened in. The only sound was a small flicking noise that repeated every few seconds, sounding like some sort of metal-on-metal. He opened the door and—

"_Sherlock_!" Without thinking, Mycroft lunged forward and stole the lighter from his brother's small hands and the cigarette pack from his desk. The younger boy looked up at him with big, bright eyes, a curl falling down the center of his forehead. Mycroft couldn't move momentarily, and could only gape at him with a mixture of fear and anger boiling up inside of him. When he regained his composure, he was able to turn and shut the door with a soft click and sit down on Sherlock's bed, holding the two offenders in his hands. His brother just stared at him with a calm expression.

"What," he trailed off, biting his lip painfully. Things he wanted to say jumped around in his mind, but he had to be careful with his words when he was dealing with Sherlock. He could become… sensitive, at times. _What the hell were you thinking? Don't you know what these can do to you? Are you _mad_? _He settled for a simple question, figuring it was the easiest way the get information out of his brother. "Why?"

Sherlock was quiet for a while more, blinking carefully, obviously thinking of a good response. When he opened his mouth to speak, he looked at the floor, avoiding eye contact. "I was curious," he whispered quietly, making Mycroft sigh. How could he be furious with him? He was _eleven_, for God's sake; he was just naive.

"Where did you get them?" When Sherlock seemed to realize he wasn't in terrible trouble, he looked up from underneath his bangs.

"They were in someone's coat pocket." Mycroft tried not to label his brother as a pickpocket, though he hoped dearly this wasn't going to become normal for him.

"You can't just steal from a coat that's lying around. You know that, right?"

"He still had the coat on," Sherlock said simply, looking at him full in the eyes now. Mycroft was finding it extremely difficult not to be impressed by such a feat, but he had to remind himself of the situation. His brother— his _little_ _brother_— had cigarettes. And he'd be damned if he let him get into such a habit.

"Sherlock, do you realize how dangerous these… these _things_ are?" The young Holmes nodded that he did, but Mycroft wasn't sure he did. "They're addictive, first off, so even if you know the harm they can inflict you don't care. They hurt your body and your mind, Sherlock. Do you want that?" He looked at the floor again, looking like a kicked puppy. Sherlock mumbled something so quietly Mycroft couldn't hear, and he leaned forward, furrowing his brow. "What?"

"Please don't tell Mummy," Sherlock repeated, louder this time. He sniffled, and Mycroft realized he had tears streaming from his blue-green-gray eyes. His shoulders immediately slumped forward in defeat, knowing he couldn't continue to be angry at him.

"Come here," he whispered, stepping away from the bed and kneeling in front of Sherlock. He took the boy in his arms, letting him cry into his shoulder. After a while, the kid calmed down, pulling away to wipe his face with the back of his palm.

"I-I'm sorry," he managed to choke out, still avoiding eye contact. Again, many things flashed through his mind that he wanted to say. _You damn well better be sorry. You're going to be sorry when I let Mum know. Sorry? You're _sorry_?_ Instead, he stood and placed a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

"Just remember what I said," he muttered, trying not to sound angry. He couldn't bring himself to say 'It's ok,' because it most certainly was not. It was all he could do to leave the room without saying anything more, because he definitely had much more to say to his brother. He just put the lighter and cigarettes into his jacket pocket, knowing he wouldn't end up telling their mother. He didn't want Sherlock to be in trouble, and he knew that an angry Mum sent upon his little brother was the last thing he needed. If she happened to find the cigarettes in his own pocket, he'd welcome the onslaught. Better him than Sherlock, he knew.

But because he didn't actually look inside the packet, Mycroft _didn't_ know that one of the cigarettes was missing. And he didn't know that Sherlock most definitely had matches in his desk drawer.


	12. Everybody Talks by Neon Trees

**Notes: **Sorry it's been a while since I updated. No excuses here. :/_  
_

This one was pretty fun to write, to be honest. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Everybody Talks by Neon Trees_

John walked into the kitchen, his stomach grumbling quietly in hunger. He had been so busy chasing Sherlock around London to see various crime scenes he hadn't taken the time to eat properly. God, he was turning into his flat mate…

He opened the fridge, reaching automatically for where he knew he put his leftovers from takeout a couple days ago. His fingers brushed against something slimy and cold, and John caught a glance at some sort of organ before he pulled away and pushed the door shut. Muttering to himself about those damned experiments of Sherlock's, he opened a drawer to grab a towel. Resting casually on the desired towel sat a petite hand, and with that, he slammed the drawer shut and stomped into the living room where Sherlock was lying on the couch, humming to himself.

"This needs to stop," John said firmly, pointing to the kitchen. The detective stopped his humming long enough to look up innocently. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about."

"Oh, please," Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood, staring down at his friend. "What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to take that hand out. I don't like it there!" John was aware that his voice was rising to a shout, but he honestly didn't care. He was just tired of severed limbs and organs making an appearance every time he wanted food.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock snapped, pushing past him. His voice was growing, too, making John even angrier.

"Sherlock!" The detective had his phone out and pressed to his ear, facing away from his flat mate. "Oh, God, what are you doing?"

"I want a _head_, John, is that okay?" He was screaming, holding the phone away from his ear. They hadn't fought this loudly over the severed limbs problem in a while, and John could tell they both had pent up feelings about the subject.

"Where are you going to put it?" He stormed over to the fridge and ripped it open, pointing to the mess. Now that he had a chance to look, there were several jars of bodily fluids and organs, mingled in with various appendages and members. He thought he even caught a glimpse of what looked like a fetus. "It won't fit in there."

"I will put it wherever I bloody please," the detective yelled, running over and slamming the fridge shut. "I'll make it fit." He threw the phone aside, and John assumed he hadn't been able to contact whoever he was going to about the head.

"_Sherlock_!" John ran his fingers through his own hair, frustrated, and kicked his foot against a wall in his haste.

"_John_!" The detective held out his hands, looking as if he was strangling thin air.

"_Aaaah_!" They screamed in unison.

* * *

Mrs. Husdon sipped her tea at her small table, trying not to giggle too loudly. In the flat above her own, she could only imagine what her two boys were doing. She, along with everyone else, could see how they looked at each other sometimes, but she had never thought them to be so… _dirty_.

They were up there screaming like banshees, announcing what they liked and didn't like with such force she thought they might get violent. Perhaps they were into masochism?

She shrugged and took another sip of tea, reaching over to grab her cellphone. At the sound of the loud howl that came from above her flat, Mrs. Hudson smiled and dialed the number of her close friend, holding the phone to her ear.

"Hello, sweetie," she replied to the answer. "You'll never guess what I just heard…"

* * *

Sherlock and John went to the police station the next day, still ruffled from their fight. Neither of them had apologized, and it seemed that neither of them ever would. They walked in silence, passing people on the way without a single glance. They both just kept their eyes trained forward, shoulders stiff and backs straight.

A wolf whistle from behind them made the two men freeze, and they looked at each other before turning around. The offender, Sally Donovan, smiled and nudged Anderson, who was standing beside her. He turned to glance at the detective and his blogger, then grinned, sharing a knowing look with his coworker.

Knowing what, neither man knew.

They ignored it and continued on, becoming more confused as they travelled to Lestrade's office. They kept receiving suggestive eyebrow-raises and sly nods of approval. When they got to the gray-haired man's office, both Sherlock and John were thoroughly flustered. Lestrade looked up from his desk, silent for a moment, then beamed wickedly.

"Congratulations," he said, leaning back in his chair. "It's about time, too."

John glared at Sherlock, grinding his teeth together. "I _told_ you people talk."


	13. Happy by Never Shout Never

**Notes: **To explain my absence on this website, I offer only two words: Band Camp.

Actually, I shall offer more to explain to those who have never had band camp before. I just got finished Friday with band camp, which was 8 hours a day, plus about 5 hours of entertaining my friends. Apparently giving them the remote and writing on the computer isn't entertaining enough for them...

So I'm trying to catch up with my blogs and fanfictions while also trying to get ready for school, which starts in a week. So basically... I'm sorry. I'm trying to write updates for all my fics. This is the first, and I'll be trying my best to continue my updates as often as possible. Once school is started and I get settled with my new daily schedule I can find where to fit in writing, which shouldn't be too difficult.

Thank you for sticking with me, and again, I'm sorry for the erratic updates. I'm trying my best.

* * *

_Happy by Never Shout Never_

Sherlock was perhaps one of the loneliest men in existence. He found himself trapped inside his chaotic mind, cold and alone. No one could understand what he felt or what he went through every day. The burden of his intellect weighed him down, and he forcibly pushed others away without a second thought. He had gone this far in life all by himself, so he saw no need to seek out companionship now.

All of that changed, though, when he met John Watson.

This ex-army doctor waltzed into his life with a brave face, saving his life in more ways than one. He had rows with machines, he had,_ past tense_, a psychosomatic limp, and he ate toast with jam in the morning for breakfast. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock when he thought he wasn't looking, he thought his deducing was equally remarkable and aggravating, and he continued to share a flat with him after everything they had been through.

This man was extraordinarily patient, more so than any other person in Sherlock's life had ever been. He tolerated being talked to like a child, having a gun pointed at his skull, and endless severed limbs in various nooks and crannies throughout their home. Despite nearly being killed several times over, he stayed. He always stayed.

To everyone else, John had a tough exterior, that of a skilled soldier. But Sherlock saw him when he was sleepy, and when he thought something was so funny he threw his head back and roared with laughter. He had seen him get so angry his hands shook and he swore at everything in his path, animate or not. He could peer past the uniform and certifications to see the man behind the front.

Sherlock was the type who could step into a room and remember the placement of every paper and pencil. He could see things other people couldn't; small hints that lead him to the big picture. His eyes took in everything, and his mind stored it all for later. But even with this enigmatic sight, he had never been able to see what was so clearly standing right in front of him the entire time: John Watson made him happy.

He made him happier than he had ever been in his entire life. He was that little light at the end of the tunnel that everyone raved about; the one he constantly told people surely did not exist. That idealistic image everyone painted of some romantic person in their lives that cleared everything up had seemed silly before. But now, it only seemed to be logical.

Whenever John was around the churning in his mind ceased, sorting itself into neat thoughts to go back to later. He didn't feel a hollow cavity in his chest, as if something had filled a lingering void. Sherlock found himself speechless at times, and at others he felt unable to stop chattering on, just wanting to sustain the conversation for as long as possible.

He had been the loneliest man in existence, trudging through each day with a mask of who he was supposed to be. But someone walked into his life, and flipped the switch to shine light into his room. And whenever Sherlock looked over at John, he knew he didn't have to be alone anymore, and that thought made him the happiest man in existence.


End file.
